


What Dreams May Come

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Barbossa's wishful thinking about the young woman he left behind at Grantham House, Erotic Dreams, F/M, Tia Dalma's power to walk in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:04:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: After being raised from the dead by Tia Dalma, an anxious Barbossa starts sleeping with random women in an effort to prove to himself that his equipment still works.  Tia Dalma, though, has different ideas on how he should go about it and about whom he should be thinking… and she's extraordinarily intrusive about making her opinion known.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist borrowing the title from the book; not only because of its erotic play on words in this instance, but also because there are elements in it — a psychic woman, a woman grieving for a man she misses, that man yearning to return to her — that fit so well within the Barbossa/Innkeeper arc. 
> 
> The innkeeper, as far as Barbossa knows, is not yet the innkeeper. *That* title belongs to her grandmother. In fact, the old woman has already died, leaving her granddaughter in charge of Grantham House, but Barbossa doesn't yet know that.
> 
> "Leaving money on the dresser" is the surest way to insult a woman after a man has had sex with her, as it's telling her in no uncertain terms that she's a whore and the money is her payment for services rendered.
> 
> Although he (usually) takes his boots and weapons off (keeping the latter nearby), Barbossa generally sleeps in his clothes — breeches, shirt, waistcoat, and sash — especially as he's temporarily resident in Tia Dalma's shack and doesn't want to be caught out underdressed or naked by this very strange woman. 
> 
> A "sprog" is a child, in the same mold as 'sprat' or 'brat.'

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

The first thing Barbossa does upon being brought back to the land of the living — all talk of eating bushels of apples aside — is to find himself a woman.  Who she is, what she looks like, whether or not she's even decently clean, none of it makes any difference;  not when he's so desperate to find out if his tackle still works.  It would be a sorry prank for Tia Dalma to play on him if it doesn't.  
  
But it does, and better than ever, so the woman gets double her usual fee for proving it to him:  a small stack of shining coins left on the edge of her rickety dresser.  
  
She's not the only woman whose body he purchases, and Tia Dalma frowns at him each time he comes back to the shack, face flushed, panting a bit, and looking exhausted.  "You wastin' yerself, Barbossa,"  she warns him.  "Dere be more important t'ings t' concern yerself wit' " — she pauses — "an' a more 'portant woman, too.  You know de one I mean."  
  
"Tain't none of yer damn business,"  he growls back.  
  
But,  "I'n't it, now?  I di'n't bring you back t' push yer stalk int' ev'ry woman you see."  
  
Barbossa presses his lips together.  In his heart, he knows of whom the mystic speaks, but he's frightfully aroused all the time after years and years of nothing, so what is he supposed to do for relief?  Stick it in his hand or knotholes or clumps of slick, wet moss?  Should he fuck Tia Dalma?  He shudders at that idea, because, truth be told, she scares him.  So it will be loose women of one stripe or another, then, whichever will have him, because at least he and they know the protocol of such transactions:  coins on her dresser, slip into her bed, push her legs apart, slide deep inside her, and pound away until his climax overtakes him and he starts to shriek, flooding her with the warmth of his seed and leaving a spreading wet spot beneath her.  Whether Barbossa pleases her or not is irrelevant — not when he's the one doing the paying — and likewise, he has no worries about any sprogs he might leave in his wake, because knowing the ways to stop such a thing happening is her lookout, not his.  He does wonder sometimes if he has offspring from his younger years or if he's capable of producing them now — can a man who was once dead still generate life? — but that's just idle conjecture for the times when he's bored and has nothing else to think about.  
  
_Oh aye,_   he thinks after every successful randy transaction.  _Me langer's working better'n ever, thank fuckin' God_.  
  
He'll one day learn to thank Tia Dalma, whose magic it is that's given him his abilities back.  
  
She continues to nag him, though, bringing up the subject of 'a more 'portant woman,' until the pleasure he feels from his bought companions markedly lessens.  He knows who she is — he's thought about her all these years, holding fast to the memory of her dark eyes and her pretty face and the soft smile she turned upward toward him when he last saw her — and Barbossa wonders why Tia Dalma is so hell bent on bringing her up to him at every opportunity.    
  
Doesn't she know how cruel she's being;  how badly it hurts?  She seems to know everything else;  can't she see how that memory both comforts and torments him?  He wants to go home to the young woman, but is so deathly afraid that something will prevent it;  or, if he does get there, that she'll belong to some other man or just won't want him.  
  
No.  Damned if he'll be afraid:  he's going home to her straightaway once the terms of his bargain with Tia Dalma are met.  
  
The mystic drums her fingers on the table a few nights later, watching Barbossa pick at his dinner (he doesn't dare think about what might be in it).  "You men,"  she says, shaking her dreadlocked head.  "Can't t'ink 'bout not'ing but where t' stick it."  
  
"If ye'd gone without for 'leven years,"  he snaps back,  "there'd be precious little else _you'd_ be thinkin' 'bout, either!"  
  
This makes Tia Dalma smile.  Despite herself, she quite likes Barbossa;  or, rather, she likes what she knows about him;  things he doesn't know she's aware of.  "P'raps.  But you ought stop an' t'ink:  you got not'in' else t' live for?  Not'in' an' _nobody?_   You wanna stick it somewhere?  You wait for her."  
  
Her words give Barbossa dreams that night:  erotic dreams of the pretty girl he remembers, clad in a modest dress and apron, her plaited dark hair falling down from under her cap.  He dreams that he places a stack of bright coins on her dresser, slips into her bed, pushes her legs apart, slides so deep inside her that she cries out and catches her breath in both pain and pleasure, and he begins to move, slowly at first, then quicker and harder, kissing her deeply, giving her his tongue as he sucks on hers, until he wakes up with a strangled scream, quivering all over, to find he's soaked the front of his breeches with semen, and now the cloth is all sticky and wet.  Not the first time it's happened, but still,  _Yechhh._  
  
Tia Dalma's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him, amused.  "If dat be what you have for her, den she'll be one happy girl.  But forget 'bout de coins 'less you wanna get slapped."  
  
Shocked by the unexpected sound of her voice, Barbossa curls up into a tight ball of humiliation, appalled that she should catch him in the midst of the most overwhelming wet dream he's had since he was a boy.  "Fuck off,"  he mumbles.  
  
The mystic first grins, then laughs.  "You gotta stop bein' so tetchy, Barbossa.  Now sleep some more an' enjoy yourself:   go have 'nother dream."  Then she turns and walks away, still chuckling, and leaves him to calm down.  
  
It takes awhile for Barbossa to decide she's not coming back, at which point he quickly unbuttons his breeches and wipes himself off with his sash.  _What a waste,_   he sighs.  _Right place t' put that be in th' cunny or mouth of that sweet little lass, if e'er I see her again._  
  
Oh, dear.  Now _that_ calls up a vision that starts him to aching and hardening all over again, and before he knows it, he's asleep and falling into a second dream, unconsciously helped along by the nudging touch of his hand.  
  
This time around, his dreaming mind takes it slow, and — per Tia Dalma's waking suggestion — there are no coins to be placed upon the dresser;  no payment to be made.  The longer he looks at the girl, the more he recognizes every last detail of the innkeeper's granddaughter.  _Could she still be that young?_   Barbossa wonders.  Not likely;  it's been thirteen, fourteen years, maybe more, and she'd be a grown woman by now;  the full-blown rose instead of the bud.  And if she's half what she was as a maiden, then he's in for a treat when he sees her once more.    
  
In the meantime, he'll enjoy her in his memory, in his dreams:  every soft, fragrant bit of her.  
  
This new reverie gives Barbossa a chance to indulge all his senses and give pleasure to his lover as well.  _"Open,"_   he murmurs against the bare skin of her thigh, repeating himself when she seems nervous.  _"Open, an' don't worry, sweet, I won't hurt ye."_ Though he's not sure about that as he nips the soft flesh on his way up to the wet folds between her legs.  
  
Though he hasn't indulged in it with any of his anonymous women, this is something he's wanted to enjoy for more years than he cares to remember, and Barbossa can hear his young lady moan, he swears it, as he flicks his tongue against her, then into her.  He'll take his time with this — make a whole meal and a dream of it — at least, until his body screams at him to do something else.  But it's not quite screaming, not yet, and the innkeeper's granddaughter is luscious to his taste, so he settles in for the long haul, her soft, dark curls tickling his nose as he presses forward, tongue first in gentle jabs, his breath hot as he hums against her.  
  
The young woman twists against the tease of Barbossa's nibbling lips, and he laughs, taking a firmer grip with both hands on her hips.  _I'll make ye beg for me not t' stop,_   he thinks, as far as he's able to think at all.  _I'll make ye shiver an' cry out so loud, ye'll hear it from here t' where ye are now._  
  
Barbossa is knowledgeable and well-practiced in the arts of lust, but perhaps 'lover' has never yet been something he might call himself, for he's never properly had a sweetheart.  Gone to sea young, the occasional woman caught his eye when ashore, but he never stayed long enough for more than a night's worth of rolling on a strange (and usually paid) mattress.  But this one… he saw her so many times;  spent years in coy overtures until he asked her outright…  
  
He asks her again in his dream, just before he takes one final swipe with his tongue that sets her to violently shaking:  _"Sweet darlin', would ye have me within ye?"_  
  
The answer's a rising, shrieked, feminine _"Ay-y-y-Y-Y-E!!"_ and Barbossa's on her and inside her before the sound can fade, but just as he's about to lose himself completely, a strong brown hand closes on his wrist.  _"Careful, Barbossa,"_   comes Tia Dalma's hissing voice, from what corner of his dream, he doesn't know.  _"Remember:  dis woman you hold, dis woman what you ask t' hold you wit'in, she live for you an' pray you come back.  You been dead, but she don' know dat:  you always been 'live t' her.  She want dis wit' you, but not t' be t'rown aside after.  Speak it or not, but you mus' love dis woman, else you dishonor an' shame her, an' I know how cruel dat can be."_  
  
How dare she even suggest that he doesn't?  He'd dishonor and shame every other woman in the world and not give a damn, but not this one.  
  
Barbossa holds his young woman even closer, kissing her face and caressing her hair, slipping his arms under her knees to aid him as he drives deep;  then he curves his back and lowers his head so that he can take a soft breast into his mouth, suckling it nearly to bruising.  Just as much as he's desired to lap at her sweet cunny, he's long wanted to take her warm, tender nipples between his lips;  and he knows that, though he wants to, he won't be lasting much longer.  
  
Tia Dalma watches him carefully as he dreams.  _Gave her pleasure b'fore he took his own,_   she thinks, approving.  _Dis i'n't de Barbossa Witty Jack t'ink he knows… but he's de one de young miss love mos' truly._  
  
She shudders in gratification in the same moment that Barbossa comes for the second time;  a slower, more intense and utterly satisfying climax that leaves him drained and just as messy as the first one, but smiling.  Tia Dalma's learned what she needs to:  he'll do anything to get back to the lonely woman who loves him so much.  It's knowledge she can use… and a gift she can give.  _You sleep, Hector Barbossa, an' know dat ye're loved,_   she thinks, using her magic to allow him refreshing rest instead of flustered wakefulness.  _But you mind me, an' mind me good:  you need no more proof of bein' alive, so quit playing Hide de Stalk wit' de neighbors!_

 

 

  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-     


End file.
